


So Does the Pack

by patster223



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Grand Mag said that werewolves were overrated but then he became one, Werewolf AU, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 22:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12375462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: Grand Magnificent is bitten by a werewolf.No,the irony of that does not escape him.





	So Does the Pack

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as Grand Mag did the lichen/werewolf bit, I was like, yeah...a werewolf AU is going to be written. Thanks for [the-oxford-english-fangeek](http://the-oxford-english-fangeek.tumblr.com/) for the beta <3

When Grand Magnificent stumbles into camp wearing the tattered remains of his shirt and clutching a bleeding shoulder, the reaction he receives is appropriately dramatic. Echo immediately runs to fetch the med kit, Even rushes to steady Grand, and Gig pops out his eye to inspect Grand’s shoulder.

Unfortunately, when Grand Magnificent declares, “I think…I was bitten by a werewolf,” the reaction is _not_ as dramatic as he would like.

Instead of panicking, everyone only stares at Grand—except for Gig. Rather than look at Grand, Gig’s eye turns around to face himself so that he can give the camera a deadpan stare.

Grand clears his throat. “Uh…I said-”

“No, we heard what you said,” Gig says. “We just don’t believe you.”

“Do I not look appropriately mauled?” Grand exclaims. He tries to throw his hands up in the air, but his movement is halted by Echo’s firm touch as they attend to his wound. Grand settles for gesturing at his shredded shirt.

“Definitely an animal attack,” Echo says. “He probably wandered into its territory, got attacked, went into shock, and then got lost before finding his way back here.”

Grand shakes his head. “It wasn’t shock. It was…”

The thing, he isn’t sure _what_ it was. After the bite, Grand only remembers pain, the shifting of his own bone and muscle, a shock of fur—and then waking up. But he’s pretty sure that shock doesn’t include the feeling of his own canines lengthening.

“So, let me get this straight,” Even says. “You’re telling us that the first time you explored Quire alone, you saw some kind of weird shadow person; the second time, you found a pit filled with alien skeletons; and now, you got bitten by a werewolf?”

“Well, it all sounds kind of implausible when you phrase it like that,” Grand murmurs.

“Glad we can agree on that,” Echo says. They pour a bottle of juice over Grand’s shoulder and then wipe the wound with a bit more force than is necessary. “Now stop wandering off and getting hurt.”

Grand scowls. “I just want everyone to know that I am _aware_ of the irony, given the whole lichen/lychan mix-up, but I’m not crying wolf here.”

“Well, you are, but it’s literal, not figurative,” Gig says, as he searches through Grand’s bag.

“Exactly.”

Gig tosses Grand some fresh clothes. “I mean, there’s a pretty easy way to test that. Quire has five moons. There’s probably going to be another full one in, like, a minute.”

Even sighs. “Grand, if we monitor you during the next full moon, will you agree to stop going off on your own without checking in?”

“Fine.” A memory surges forward: a flash of teeth and sharp claws. Grand blanches. “But we’re taking precautions.”

 

***

 

As it turns out, ‘precautions’ means the three of them wearing the animal control gear that Even has leftover from his time on the Ever Forward, and Gig’s eye filming from a distance rather than trying to get a close up.

“This is going to go terribly,” Grand says. He’s wearing a tank top and loose-fitting pants, mostly because he isn’t sure what the fashion protocol is for werewolf transformation. It seems like a bad idea to wear his expensive camping clothes, but he also can’t bring himself to strip down completely.

He’s feeling vulnerable enough as it is, under the rising moon.

“You’re shaking,” Even says. He places a steady hand on Grand’s good shoulder. “Don’t worry; if anything happens, I’m great with animals.”

“N-not reassuring,” Grand says, wincing when he finds that his teeth are chattering too. Maybe he should’ve worn more layers.

Even takes a gentler tone. “What do you usually do to calm yourself down?”

“I-I make art.”

“Why don’t you try that?”

Grand begins drawing aimless sketches in the sky, but the neon light that he conjures shakes too—there is more fear than inspiration there as the moon continues to rise.

“Why don’t you design Gig a mech?” Echo suggests. “You already made one for me and Even. What would you make for Gig?”

“Whatever it is, there has to be a stable in it for Duck,” Gig says.

Grand hums in agreement and begins drawing anew. For a few moments, the effort is as peaceful and beautiful as it always is…

And then Grand Magnificent’s _bones_ shake too as the full moon reaches its apex. There is no lost time when it happens this time: just the hissing of neon sketches fizzling out as his fingers become clawed and imprecise, and the popping of bone as he’s forced to his hands and knees. He tries to cry out, but the rumbling in his throat and jaws turns the shout into a low whine. 

A dozen unfamiliar, indescribable smells suddenly assault his nose. His whine turns into a growl. Grand braces himself on all four legs and looks around, vision blurry as he tries to process these strange smells and the sound of people shouting and—

A hand moves into his field of vision and Grand lunges for it on instinct—but his muzzle is immediately shut by two smaller hands that’d been hovering just out of view. Grand’s hackles raise and he readies himself to run, to get _away,_ but a steady voice interrupts his racing thoughts.

“It’s okay, Grand,” it says. “It’s me, Even. It’s just me.”

“Can he even understand you like this?” says another voice—this one higher and accompanied by a low buzzing sound.

“I’m not sure it matters as long as Even can calm him down,” says a third voice, this one belonging to the person holding Grand’s muzzle. Grand relaxes his jaw upon hearing them—he knows that Echo won’t hurt him.

“Echo is right,” Even says. “He’s just scared and confused right now. Which…is kind of understandable. You doing okay there, Grand?”

Grand blearily nods. His legs tremble with the effort of the transformation: of processing this new data, this new _body._ He nearly recoils when Even carefully holds out a hand to his nose, but then he smells him…

 _Stale earth, mint, gunmetal, cardamom, and something else, something smoky and electric that smells just like how the Mirage_ feels _—_

Grand deflates, and Echo slowly lets go of his jaw. The four of them take a collectively deep breath.

“Well shit,” Gig says. “I didn’t expect him to actually _be_ a werewolf.”

Grand growls—and then, amidst the dust that his struggle kicked up, he sneezes. And maybe it’s because they’re all still coming down from the stress of the transformation, or maybe it’s because Grand sneezes like a _dog_ now, but all of them burst into laughter. Even Grand can’t help but huff in amusement.

As soon as he transforms back, the other three are getting a _big_ I-told-you-so.

 

***

 

Once Grand is bipedal and clothed again, Gig asks, “Can I broadcast this?”

“That seems kind of inappropriate-” Echo begins, but Grand only shrugs.

“Sure,” he says. “As long as you mention my work somewhere in there. Oh, and also talk about the fact that everyone else was fine with _alien horses_ and Even growing a new _body part_ every other week, but the minute I suggested werewolves, _I_ was the crazy one.”

“I can do that,” Gig says. His eyes glaze over for a few seconds, and then he chirps, “It’s up!”

Grand can’t resist pulling the video up on his tablet. He skips the transformation part—he _felt_ that, he doesn’t need to see it—and then pauses the video. The screen is frozen on a shot of Grand: covered in fur and vainly trying to bar his teeth at Even and Echo.

Grand winces. He prods his teeth with his tongue and wonders if they aren’t a little sharper than they had been previously.

He shakes his head and skips to the end of the video. It ends on a clip of Grand staring at his own wagging tail, obviously trying to figure out how _that_ thing works.

“Huh,” Grand says. “I wonder if I can design a mech that a werewolf can use.”

Even’s groan is audible from across the campsite.

Of course, Grand later discovers that designing a mech for a werewolf is fucking annoying, mostly because doing _anything_ as a werewolf is fucking annoying. Grand learns this fairly quickly, because Quire has five fucking lunar cycles to deal with.

On the bright side, the transformations become less painful as Grand grows more experienced with them. It also helps that he happens to know someone whose body rearranges itself on a regular basis—and it turns out that Even has tips.

“Deep breaths,” Even says.

“It’s hard to take deep breaths when I’m about to grow a _tail_ ,” Grand pants.

“It doesn’t matter if they’re good deep breaths,” Even says. “It’s about going through the motions: centering yourself. Here, let’s try this instead. Choose one thing in the room—a sound, a smell, whatever—and just focus on that.”

Even is closest, so Grand focuses on him and the strange Mirage scent that he carries. It smells like the air right after a thunderstorm hits. Grand closes his eyes, smells static and damp humidity, and thinks of the time Memorious rearranged itself into a lightning cloud ready to burst: and how everything on the ship that day felt more electric and thrilling for it.

When Grand opens his eyes, his head rests on his paws and his ears droop as Even absentmindedly scratches behind them.

Even starts when Grand yawns.

“Sorry,” Even says, lifting his hand away. “That’s probably not cool, is it? I’m used to being around dogs who aren’t also people.”

Grand tries to say that he doesn’t mind, but all that comes out is a low bark. He huffs. There’s tech that could allow him to communicate more easily in this form, but they’ve been so busy with the mission that they haven’t had time to experiment with it yet.

Instead, Grand butts his head against Even’s hand. Canine body language feels right in this body, and Grand is fine with that. He went to art school, after all—he’s done stranger things to express himself.

Even seems to get the message, because he continues petting Grand with one hand as he pulls up some notes on a tablet with the other.

Grand is too tired to attempt to do the same. Designing something using his paws sounds too difficult right now. Besides, Even’s hands are warm and sure as he smooths out the knots in Grand’s fur—it’s impossible to focus on anything else as he drifts to sleep.

 

***

 

Grand is an artist. Every one of his experiences helps him see the world more clearly and then translate that vision into his designs. As far as he’s concerned, this werewolf thing is just another one of those experiences.

A _weird_ experience, to be sure, but so is everything else on this planet. At least Grand wasn’t bitten by some kind of were-Duck.

“Could you tell him to stop bothering me?” Grand asks, brushing aside Duck’s mane as it prods him yet again. “I’m trying to design _your_ mech.”

“He deserves to have input on the design,” Gig says.

“Duck,” Duck agrees.

Grand sighs and goes back to figuring out how a damn stable is going to fit into this mech…

“Grand,” Duck says. Which is unfortunate, because Duck only says his name when—

“Oh _shit_ ,” Grand hisses, scrambling for his transformation supplies.

“You mean you _forgot_ ?” Gig says. “You needed my _horse_ to remind you that you were becoming a wolf-man tonight?"

“There are five moons!” Grand says, quickly stripping off his shirt and shoes. “It’s hard to keep track of!”

“Duck can do it!”

“That’s because your horse likes me better as a werewolf than as a human!” Grand says. “It’s mildly insulting.”

“Duck,” Duck says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grand says, putting his shoes away where he can’t be tempted to chew on them later. He sits down and, less than a minute later, begins to shift under the light of the full moon.

As soon as he’s done changing, Duck sits down next to him. Grand rolls his eyes, but curls up next to Gig’s horse.

“You forgot your collar,” Gig says. “You still want it?”

Grand huffs, but nods. He has mixed feelings about the collar. Aesthetically, it’s fantastic—of course it’s fantastic, Grand designed it: a dazzling red and purple collar made up of dozens of Echo’s tiny stitches.

The neuro-speaker tech on the back of the collar, however…on one hand, Grand can’t deny that’s it’s a relief to be able to speak as a wolf. On the other hand, no one—least of all Grand—has been able to get used to hearing Grand’s voice come from the back of his _neck_.

So, instead of speaking his thanks, Grand lets out a low bark.

“No problem.” Gig leans back. “We still doing the mech thing, or should we shelve that for when you have opposable thumbs again?”

Grand lifts a paw to try to continue sketching, and growls at the crude, clumsy neon lines he produces. Duck nudges Grand with his nose and—hmm, that’s not a bad idea.

Grand lifts his snout in the air and starts moving it in slow, careful lines. At first, the resulting sketches are just as rough as the ones before. It doesn’t help that he can’t actually _see_ what he’s doing.

But Grand is an artist, and this is simply a new perspective from which to create art. He can’t see the lines, no, but Grand’s wolf form is alert and aware—he can still sense where the lines are in space, can even _smell_ them now. Grand continues to draw until, slowly, his sketches become more and more precise: still more free form than what Grand might produce as a human, but it’s definitely workable.

When Grand turns to ask Gig for his input, the man’s grin is even more gleeful than usual. Grand cocks his head.

“You tail is _wagging_ ,” Gig explains.

Grand turns around and—huh, so it is. He doesn’t feel the urge to suppress the movement. It feels like just another way to express himself, just like the barking and the nose drawing. So, Grand continues to wag his tail and draw with his nose and create something truly magnificent.

 

***

 

“Grand, can you go find Echo and tell them dinner is ready?” Even asks.

Grand rolls his eyes. “Oh, so _now_ it’s perfectly okay for me to go out on my own?”

“Helps that you have sharp teeth now,” Gig says. “Just don’t run into any more skeletons.”

Grand rolls his eyes again, but barks his assent. He stands on all fours and begins tracking Echo, following the scent of their salty sweat and the cold metal of their blade.

Before he can find them, however, he finds a small pack of wolves eyeing the camp. They keep pacing back and forth, pausing to sniff the air before pacing again. Grand has seen that same body language on his own wolf form in Gig’s videos: whenever he’s thinking about doing something that’s _technically_ against protocol.

An instinct swells up in Grand that he hasn’t felt since his second transformation. His hackles raise and he barks to get the other wolves’ attention.

 _Go away,_ he growls, not bothering with the speaker on his collar. _My territory, my pack._

Unfortunately, even in a canine body and acting on canine instincts, Grand Mag is still _Grand Mag._ When the other wolves approach him, their teeth sharp and gleaming, Grand whines and slowly backs away. Echo, Even, and Gig may—apparently—be his pack now, but Grand protects his pack by building them beautiful and useful things—not by _fighting_ for them.

Thankfully, the scent of sweat and metal approaches on the wind and Echo appears beside him, sword drawn. Also thankfully, the wolves on Quite are wiser than Grand is—they know when they’re outmatched. One of them lets out a growl at Grand, but leads the pack away from Echo and the camp.

Echo sighs. “So I guess it was too much to expect for you to be able to protect yourself even though you’re now an apex predator on this planet.”

Grand whines. It’s not his fault that all forces natural and supernatural on Quire seem to be specifically targeting _him._

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Echo says. They sheathe their sword, but instead of going back to camp, they sit on the ground beside Grand, resting their chin on their knees.

Grand has always known that Echo is a moody person, but he hadn’t known the extent of Echo’s feelings until he became a werewolf. Now, he can smell the saltwater on Echo’s cheeks and can hear them when they wander off in the middle of the night, unable to sleep.

Grand admires the depth of Echo’s emotions, but he has a feeling that saying so would irritate Echo rather than comfort them. So instead, Grand places a careful head on their lap.

Echo chuckles. “You’re secretly just a big fuzzball like this, aren’t you?”

“I’m an artist.”

“And a fuzzball. Though I guess at least you _tried_ to protect us.” Echo buries both hands in Grand’s fur. As they begin petting him, their breathing slowly steadies and the saltwater scent becomes distant.

The feeling of _pack_ surges in Grand again and he licks Echo’s hand.

Echo smiles, though they also move to wipe their now-damp hand on Grand’s fur. They stop, however, as their hand brushes against the scar on Grand’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t able to protect you that day,” Echo murmurs.

Grand remembers Echo tending to his wound on the day he was bitten, remembers them holding him down during the next transformation while Even and Gig comforted him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Grand says.

“ _You’re_ stupid: always wandering off and antagonizing wolves. Or worse, _befriending_ them.”

Grand barks. Everyone needs to chill out about how the whole Doyenne thing turned out. He flops his whole body onto Echo’s lap and wags his tail: canine body language for _enough talking about things that have already happened. Let’s go get food._

“Yeah, yeah,” Echo says. They pat Grand one last time and the two of them head back to camp.

Even serves them all dinner and wine, which then leads to them debating whether Grand should even be allowed to have wine in his wolf form. Echo is an adamant no, while Even theorizes that Grand’s human physiology would take precedent when it comes to digestion. Meanwhile, Gig has already placed a glass next to Grand’s face so he can lap up some of the wine.

Even narrows his eyes when he sees this and grabs the glass away—though he sits beside them and scratches Grand behind the ears in reconciliation.

Grand yawns. The wine has made him sleepy and Even knows just where to scratch to make Grand’s body turn loose and languid. Gig yawns too, and flops onto the ground so that he can lay his head on Grand’s stomach.

Echo snorts, but deigns to join their weird cuddle pile. They rest their head opposite of Gig’s, tutting when they see how a thread on Grand’s collar has frayed. They pull it off him, take a tiny sewing kit out of their pocket, and begin repairing the thread.

Grand feels warm with all these bodies on him. Their scents mingle with the smell of dinner until they form something that smells like that feeling in Grand’s stomach from before: _pack._ He yawns again, his tail slowly wagging as he settles down underneath the light of the full moon, content with his pack at his side and their hands in his fur.


End file.
